Saudade
by Marquesa de Santos
Summary: Wherein lies an unexpected action and an impossible reaction. Rumbelle. Part Three of Nightmares Series.


**Saudade: a unique Galician-Portuguese word that has no immediate translation into English. "Saudade" describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent something or someone.. It often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never return. It's related to the feelings of longing, yearning. ~Wikipedia**

**As a Brazilian, I know for a fact that this is the perfect way to describe this word, and since the writer of this particular writers was so apt, I did not feel the need to rephrase it. Except I did feel the need to edit it...**

**Meant to be read after Of German Fae, which is meant to be read after When Nightmares Choke the Naiads. I'm afraid it makes little sense otherwise.**

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Saudades

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One day, he kisses her.

She doesn't push him away, and he has no intention of progression beyond the meeting of mouths, but when her slackness changes, it is not what he expects. She kisses him as though she is a woman mad from thirst and from his mouth springs streams, sucking his lower lip between her own, soft and passionate and no, it is not what he expects at all because it is so much better. It is desperate and insistent and her hands are clutching at his arms and now she has thrown herself back from him and he is dazed, confused.

"I'm sorry." There is emptiness in those normally soulful eyes. It unsettles him. "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't." She runs from the dining hall, her food untouched and her kitchen rag crumpled on the carpet. The swishing of her skirts and the clatter of her heels echo in his head for hours (forever).

He finds himself in the garden after wandering the grounds. Twilight has stolen away over the late afternoon while the smell of the roses hangs in the air, heady and sweet and he hates himself. He doesn't know everything about her sorrow. He barely knows _anything_, but she was so beautiful sitting at the spinning wheel the other night, listening to him deny her the story for which she (fairly!) dealt. She did not push him, just as he tries not to push her. He had been so certain she was about to kiss him. She came so close, and then she didn't. So he did. A week later, yes, but he had kissed her and it had been so perfect and now he hates himself.

_Clack, clack, clack._

He looks up to find her walking towards the bench on which he is sprawled. Her eyes hold contemplation. He releases a breath, relieved to find a spark in those orbs that hold the oceans. She pushes his legs off of the concrete structure, relocating them as she takes their place. He grumbles and rights himself.

He has been avoiding the interior of his estate, putting distance so that she knows he meant no harm. Never meant her harm. He still has no notion of what compelled him to kiss her, and her silence is unnerving him.

"Dearie," he begins, when she raises a hand to silence him.

"Gaston was my first kiss." Her voice is quietly detached, as though she were speaking of someone else. "It was in the garden. It was rainy. He kissed my whole face and then he kissed me. And it was sweet." Her eyes soften with a whisper of smile as they glaze with tears.

"It was nothing like the books said. The books make it sound like a kiss will move heaven and earth. Erotic," she clips. "But it doesn't. It isn't, I mean. And they never say anything about how much you give when you kiss. And we kept kissing and I thought the rain would never stop and we would never stop. I was so nervous. I remember the ducks. Isn't it odd that I should remember the ducks?" She bites her lip and picks at her fingers, looking down into her lap. "It was going so nicely when he bit me." Her hand flutters to her mouth. "He liked to make me bleed. He liked to hurt me and stupid little girl I am, I thought it was romantic." Her laugh is too loud, too bitter, too sad. More a strangled noise than anything, but he recognizes the sound. "You know, those books are written by idiots."

The moment skips (perhaps it's only his heart) and he nods. "Aye."

She stands, then. "I like you, Rumpelstiltskin. You're dear to me. I thought you'd be like Gaston, at first, but you're not, and I'm glad, but... I can't. I just can't. Not yet. Not when all I can remember is how it was with him. It hurts too much. I see him behind my eyes and I can't breathe and I'm scared. I'm not who I was, anymore. I don't trust my own heart, anymore. It led me astray, you see." Her voice has grown to a whisper and her head is sinking downwards.

"I see. I'm sorry, Belle." He doesn't know what else to say. What else is there to say? Even the Dark One cannot reorder time (and oh, but that he could).

"Its fine." She gives an(other) empty smile and tosses her hand near her head in a gesture of insignificance before pressing her mouth to his cheek and walking away.

With a start, he realizes he wants to save her.

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**I realized today that I write these from Rumpel's POV. Didn't mean to. I'm not brave enough to actually write this from the other perspective, I think. I might do a parallel series that focuses on that aspect, at some point. Let me know if you think I should.**

**This was written through two days sleep deprivation. Haha. It'd be funny if it weren't so sad. Let me know what you think.**


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